


Statement of The Admiral

by SpaceJackalope



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: "sly old-school noir vibe", Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Cats!, Disability, Everyone Is Gay, Implied medical abuse, Leitners, Libraries, M/M, Magic, Other, Paranormal Investigators, Rated T for horror + brief discussion of sex, Service Dogs, The End, The Hunt, The Spiral, The Stranger - Freeform, The Web - Freeform, This fic has, Verbal Abuse, gay kissing!, ghosts!, influenced by Bunnicula, influenced by Pushing Daisies, spooky fuckery, they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates), this is A Romp is what it is, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceJackalope/pseuds/SpaceJackalope
Summary: A case memoir by feline paranormal investigator The Admiral, concerning a haunted library he and his boyfriend dealt with in the spring of 2018. File under "Leitners," "Institute employees (former)," "Institute employees (present)," "Ghosts," "The Hunt," "The Spiral," "Verification required." On that note, remember to ask Helen what the actual fuck.--Martin Blackwood, Head of The Magnus Institute, 10 August 2019





	Statement of The Admiral

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Rusty Quill Big Bang.
> 
> Official art by Vasilyssa|Dariadraws|Nevertrustakobold [https://dariadraws.tumblr.com/post/186909327099/youre-cats-he-said-slowly-who-are] and Saberdog [https://www.instagram.com/p/B0_FyTRh4_E/]! (Daria's illustration is also imbedded below, but make sure you follow the link to see Saberdog's <3)
> 
> Generously Brit-picked by Aisydays, and key early feedback provided by Freudiancascade. Any remaining errors and questionable choices are mine alone.

Mr. Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist

The Magnus Institute

[Redacted] [Redacted], Millbank

London, England, UK

The Admiral Barker

C/O Ms. Georgie Barker

[Redacted] [Redacted], Ealing

London, England, UK

Dear Jonathan:

You will find enclosed a copy of one of my case memoirs, as it has come to my attention, via mutual acquaintances, that you are collating information regarding several persons encountered therein. I hope it will prove fruitful. Note that the header refers to the year the case was begun, the year it was concluded, and the initials of the primary client. The text has not been edited for your eyes. As it makes reference to many private matters, and makes flippant reference to yourself, I rely on your doubtless impeccable discretion and toleration.

P.S. You need to be getting more sleep, young man.

Warm regards,

The Admiral

_Case 18-18-TS_

Initially, my intention was to spend an April morning basking in the sunshine streaming through the windows while Georgie edited an episode of _What the Ghost?_ The phone, however, had other ideas, and poor Georgie was interrupted by a succession of five or more calls before ten o’clock. The last of these prompted several minutes of texting in short bursts while she packed a lunch and found something to read on the train. Something had come up about a selkie who was _also_ a ghost, and she did not expect to be back until late. Around noon-ish I grew bored of the lack of company, and decided to take a walk.

Now, although Georgie is not aware of it, I learned how to unlatch the bathroom window shortly after we moved into our current residence. It is only because of this convenient egress that I was able to revive my practice after our move from Oxford; when Georgie is away or asleep, I can jump to the tank of the commode and then to the windowsill above it, and from there go about my business without causing her concern.

I was actually not engaged on a case that particular day, but intended to visit Major Tom, my gentleman friend. We met sometime in early 2016, at a rooftop garden party we had both crashed. It was some sort of benefit-slash-celebration connected to a production of _Cats_, the musical. The human host, Adonis Biro, had arranged for two or three local shelters to bring cats hoping to find a new home, and many guests had brought cats as plus-ones as well. I had heard about it from the party’s feline hostess, Bastet Biro, who encouraged me to “swing by and have some nibbles.” Tom, for his part, had simply been attracted by the music.

If you, reader, have not met me, then you will not know what I look like. I will be honest: I am a remarkably handsome cat, black with white socks and large mismatched eyes. I receive my fair share of admiration. But Tom… Well. When I saw Major Tom, I knew I would lie awake all night with restlessness if I failed to speak to him. He is a large, strong ginger tabby with eyes the color of oxidized copper. The tip of one of his teeth tends to poke out of his mouth, which makes him look more rakish than he really is. I like that in a tomcat.

I brought him a chicken liver and told him I was The Admiral Barker, paranormal investigator. He purred sweetly and told me he was Major Tom Braga Romanoff Morales Nancy Arable Vittery Sanderson Banks. His quiet, gentle voice had a twist of pained amusement to it that reminded me of someone in an old movie—maybe a Mae West character—listing her many deceased husbands. He bit delicately at the chicken liver, before adding: “I used to be a spider-killer, but now I’m a shop cat.”

“Books?”

“Magic.” I assumed at the time that he meant magic _tricks_, like a toy Georgie and I play with, a wand that pops artificial flowers out of the end, but I later realized he meant crystals and tarot, and that sort of thing. Not really my area; I prefer more down-to-earth hobbies, like postmodernist watercolor painting.

At any rate, my baser instincts wanted to suggest we run away to the French Riviera and spend the rest of our days eating bouillabaisse and whipped cream, but I _do_ have both obligations and commitments here, so instead Major Tom and I meet up at least once a week to at least lie in the sun and nap together. Which, in all truth, is much lovelier. I’d miss Georgie too much if I left the country, even if I did find warm weather.

The Banks live on Cherry Tree Lane, in a small brick house with a green front door and a tiny back garden. Tom is an indoor-outdoor cat; his person is a refined man named Oliver who smells like honey. Most weekdays, Tom rides in the basket of Oliver’s bicycle to the magic shop, where Oliver shopkeeps and Tom mouses. He occasionally protects the shop from other things, too—crawly things with unpleasant quantities of legs, and once he pinned an asp that escaped from a lady’s handbag until she could relieve him of it. But never spiders, I am told. Spiders do not bother their shop or home, and Tom is glad.

But here I am, well off-topic. As the day I was to take this particular case was a Sunday with clear skies, I walked the short distance to Cherry Tree Lane, where I found Tom sitting in deep conversation with his neighbor, a black lab named Cassandra. I flopped onto my side, crashing against Tom, and purred hello. Major Tom broke off mid-speech and licked the spot between my ears. “Darling,” he said, as I wiggled contentedly, “Cassandra has a case for you,” and so I bolted upright into a more professional manner.

“It’s not _my_ case,” Cassandra insisted. “It’s my litter-partner’s sister’s case.”

“I see,” I told her soothingly. Clients need to know, straightaway, that you do _believe_ them, don’t you?, so it gums everything up if you don’t show that the details _matter_ to you. (Even if they _don’t_.) “Now, Cassandra, will you tell me a little about why your sister-in-law might need a paranormal investigator?”

“Wilson is my co-parent, not my mate, so Tabasco’s really not my…” She gave herself a full-body shake. “I’m being nitpicky. Tabasco is a medical assistance dog.” She beamed with pride. I gave her a quiet “ooh” to show my appreciation, like we all do when someone wants to tell us about their well-educated relatives. “Her person works at the Quicknight Library. And they’ve been having _weird_ stuff going on there lately, like bloody handprints, and their stuff getting rearranged, and the neighbors saw weird lights at night, and there’s been noises coming from the attic like clanking chains, and ooooooh there might have been a vampire, at least that’s what _I_ heard.” She wagged her tail in agitation, or excitement. It’s hard to tell, with Cassandra. Her person writes for television shows about people solving murders in picturesque towns, so they both consume a lot of true crime. I suspect Cassandra had a naturally morbid disposition, but now she associates outlandish deaths with being fed bacon, so you can only imagine what _that’s_ done to her. “You should really talk to Tabasco about it, I only heard it from Wilson, who heard it from Tabasco, except she sent it to him by a sparrow courier, and you know how sometimes they get things scrambled, especially if they have a lot of messages to recite that day.”

Despite this weak provenance, I’ve never known Cassandra to get spooked without cause; she’s no storyteller, but she’s not easily impressed, either. Turns Shirley Jackson into Scooby-Doo, you might say. Anyway, we took Tabasco’s details from her, tracked down a reliable robin courier I know, and spent the rest of the afternoon escaping the heat. Georgie’s selkie ghost turned out to be worth a longer trip; her indoor-outdoor, but mostly indoor, friend Jon came by to make sure the plants and I were watered and fed. He also gave me a thorough petting, and scratches under my chin. I love him a lot!

⁂

The Quicknight library, Tom and I discovered first thing Monday morning, is a converted Georgian-era house with a spacious public garden attached. Flowers, a vegetable bed, and feeders to entice butterflies, bees, and birds. Tabasco, as per my instructions, created some sort of excuse to be brought outside. Her person gave her an affectionate tousle around the ears before setting her loose. They sat down on a bench with some sort of nutrition bar, and very obviously zoned out. Tabasco trotted over to where we sat, by a large hydrangea. 

“Tabasco Serling, I presume?” She was an elegant young hound mix wearing a working dog’s vest. I introduced myself and Major Tom, and asked her to tell us her troubles.

Tabasco stretched out beside us. “I think we have a poltergeist living in the library’s attic. Do you do exorcisms?”

Tom and I exchanged a glance. I don’t like doing exorcisms. Very few ghosts are evil enough to warrant it. I dispelled a ghost in Oxford who found sadistic humor in watching Georgie react calmly to anything he threw at her, but even that weighs on me—I didn’t even give him the _chance_ to change. Still. It was Georgie at stake, so I’d do it again. I made a noncommittal noise at Tabasco. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve observed, first?”

The facts were these.

Although the Quicknight Library functioned primarily as a community branch, it also housed books and papers left by the late Ngaio Quick and Dorothy Nightingale, the eccentric intellectuals and bon vivants of the early 20th century. They’d left journals, letters, smutty literature. Tabasco told us their person considered the collection “an unparalleled capsule into the daily lives of a remarkable pair,” and the library received regular patronage from scholars interested in women’s history, queer history, the couple’s famous friends, medical history, 20th-century physics research, early aviation… Tabasco’s person, Bayram Serling, age 27, was the research librarian of the branch, responsible for aiding these scholars, along with schoolchildren doing projects.

“I hope it’s not intrusive of me to ask,” I said, hoping she’d tell me even if it was, “but what exactly do you aid Bayram with?”

“They have epilepsy, and are deaf in their left ear.” Tabasco wagged her tail. “So mostly I help make sure they don’t get hurt.”

“They’re very pretty,” Tom put in. I can’t usually tell whether humans are good-looking or not, I just care about smells and petting. But Tom notices. Bayram had auburn hair and large, dark eyes. Nice-looking hands, elegant and sure. A pretty floral button-down and jeans.

“Their earrings are very shiny,” I tried.

Tabasco lit up. “I know, I’m_ so_ glad they started wearing them, they were _terribly_ shy about it.”

“Are they single?” Tom asked, and I realized he was trying to matchmake, _again_. It’s not that I think it’s badly intentioned. I just think it’s stupid to try to set people up before I’ve finished the case and know who’s been trying to summon demons and who chain-smokes, and _Oliver has been through enough already, Tom_.

“Anyway!” I interjected. “The poltergeist?”

For the past month or so, the librarians had noticed things kept going missing, turning up in odd places. At first they suspected a newly-hired page; then they wondered if a former employee who lived nearby was playing a trick on them. It was merely annoying when it was staplers, concerning when it was keys, and downright unacceptable when Bayram found dark red handprints on a glass-doored bookcase one morning.

“They still don’t _know_ that it was blood,” Tabasco whispered. “They thought it might be some sort of pigment, but I _smelled_ it. And all I could do was growl, and they thought I was acting out and made me wait in their office while they cleaned it.”

After that, Bayram and the head librarian, whose name was Denise, asked some of the neighbors if they’d seen or heard anything the night before, only to be told that there had been lights in the building at odd hours for a few weeks. Nobody with the keys would own up to it—but then, there were missing keys that still hadn’t been found, too. Denise made noises about getting the locks changed, but getting the expense approved is always another matter with public works, so it still hadn’t come to fruition a week later. After all, no harm had been done. Yet.

“What makes you think the poltergeist is in the attic specifically?” I remembered Cassandra’s tale of clinking chains, but it’s never a good idea to prompt a witness with someone else’s version of events.

“So there’s this one room at the very top of the house. This is a weird house, it’s like—ground floor, first floor, and several rooms that used to be bedrooms _half_ a floor up, and then the second floor proper. And that used to be the attic, and since it was hard to get the elevator shaft to it, they only use it for storage. I’ve been up a few times, and only the eastern room actually has the fairy lights and rainbow flag stowed away in it. The western side people don’t feel safe in. It’s been inspected, there’s nothing wrong with it, but people just…feel like the floor might give way. So they don’t go in, not ever. But I’ve been hearing music up there.”

“What kind of music?”

“There’s one song I remember about being a teenage anarchist.” That didn’t sound particularly spectral, but, of course, people can be both modern and dead.

In the back of my vision, I saw Bayram stand up. “Tabasco,” I added urgently, breaking my own rules. “Cassandra said something about—about a _vampire_?”

“Hey, girl,” Bayram cooed. “Gotten your wiggles out? Say goodbye to your kitty friends, we’ve got to get back to work.”

“A vampire?” Tabasco responded, as she was led away. “I don’t know what—oh! Yeah, we saw him in the mirror…” and Bayram shut the door behind them.

⁂

“You know,” Major Tom confessed, “I didn’t really expect Cassandra to be telling the truth.”

“Well. Her name _is_ Cassandra, I suppose.”

“Aren’t vampires famous for _not_ being visible in mirrors?”

I wasn’t at all sure, but I’m a rather vain cat, so I shrugged and claimed, “That’s a broad generalization, we cannot discount the possibility.”

Tom rubbed up against me. “You’re so smart,” he purred, which is true. “Where shall we start?”

I nuzzled his throat. “The attic makes sense.”

“Oh, lovely, now we’ve only got to sneak up three and a half stories.”

I understand his apprehension, but it wasn’t really all that difficult. We snuck in through an open window in the children’s room, waited for a lull in traffic, and scooted up the stairs. The half floor of offices was harder; too many people had doors open for comfort. But we got there.

“It smells weird up here,” Tom complained.

“It smells like laundry detergent,” I agreed.

“No, I think that’s…incense? Maybe?”

“Well, we’ll soon find out.” I flattened myself and stuck my front paws through the crack at the bottom the door. Like in many old houses, it was large enough I was sure I could slide under. Except I couldn’t. I scrabbled at the hardwood. “Any moment now, I just need to get my head in the right position, you know how it is…” And Tom slid under like a pancake, stretched onto his hind legs, and, since the key was in the lock, he opened the door for me. I’ll admit it: I sulked into the room. My fur was mussed the wrong way.

Tom didn’t laugh at me, and I was almost more embarrassed by his tact. I licked my paw and started smoothing my fur. “Do you have to?” he asked. “It’s _cute_.”

I gave him a withering look. It wasn’t fair, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop myself. “I am a _handsome_ cat.”

“Very,” he agreed.

“I’m an aesthete.”

“Certainly.”

“I’m a _cat-about-town_.”

“Terribly sexy,” Major Tom encouraged me.

“I don’t—get _stuck_. I let you open the door because it’s more dignified.”

“Quite right. You deserve it.”

I posed for him. “Do I look less rumpled?”

“So nice I want to rumple you _good_.”

I preened. Major Tom’s a truly excellent gentlecat. “Later, when we’re not working.”

He gave me a slow, loving eye blink, and sneezed twice. “Is that lavender?” The room truly did reek of dried herbs. Someone had tied at least two dozen bundles in the exposed rafters, and especially above the door. It was a nice room, really. Two beds, on opposite walls. Some bookshelves, a record player, a few small lamps. There were two distinct influences. Aside from the furniture being arranged to separate the beds, the two—residents?—had hung quite different pictures on the walls, and one was plainly more orderly with their things. It reminded me of Georgie’s dorm room, and I said so.

“Great,” Tom drawled, “_two_ poltergeists.”

I nosed around in their things for a bit. I couldn’t conclude much from their reading habits, as it seemed likely they’d been swapping books back and forth. The neat one had mostly hung gothy art posters and pictures of musicians, while the other had made a careful collage of portraits, with outdoorsy snaps mixed in. Lots of kayaking.

“Bookish goth,” I said, nodding my head to one side, “and bookish jock,” nodding to the other.

“Shame nobody’s home.”

At that, I leapt onto the seat and then the back of an armchair by the window, and made a long jump, clawing at and tearing down one of the careful strings of herbs.

“Knock-knock!” I laughed, rolling across the floor and getting myself foolishly tangled. Major Tom laughed and came to help me.

Beyond him, a ghost poured smoke-like through a knot in the wooden floor.

I pulled myself loose of the twine. “Ah, ahem, good day! Pardon our intrusion into your _lovely_ abode.” The ghost’s shape was firming up, settling into a person shape. “My name is The Admiral Barker, paranormal investigator. My companion is Major Tom Banks. We’re investigating a disturbance in this building, so perhaps you could tell us a little bit about yourself, and whatever you might have...seen.”

He was wearing plum-purple leather combat boots with velvet ribbon instead of laces, elegantly tailored tight gray trousers, a short-sleeved button down with scarabs printed on it, and a corset in the same purple shade as the boots. I do like a stylish human.

“You’re cats,” he said slowly, “who are detectives?”

The thing about ghosts is—they can talk to cats, because _obviously_. If having nine lives doesn’t put you on speaking terms with the dead, nothing will. But ghosts, having been people, tend to have something of a learning curve about it all. If I had a penny for every ghost who did the “cats can _talk?_” thing, I could live off sashimi.

“I don’t suppose you have a warrant,” the ghost said, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

“Certainly not, young man, I’m privately engaged. Besides,” I added, licking my paw, “I don’t suppose _you_ have a lease.”

He laughed. “Oh, very well. So long as you don’t try to exorcise me. What’s the matter, Admiral? Neighbors complaining about the music?”

Tom and I looked sideways at each other. “So you haven’t noticed anything _unusual_, er, ah, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, and I haven’t.”

Another ghost drifted in through the half-open transom window. “Gerry! Look what just came in, we got the latest Gail Carriger, and _The Merry Spinster, _and the rest of Sarah Caudwell’s mysteries for you!” This ghost was taller and broader than Gerry, with strangely scarred arms and a Keith Haring t-shirt. He set the books down carefully on the wooden cable spool they seemed to be using as a coffee table. Not that ghosts drink coffee, or anything else. “Oh!” He exclaimed. “Kitties!” He remembered himself and cleared his throat. “Er, hello, I’m Tim, how d’you do…your felinenesses?”

Major Tom rubbed against Tim’s legs. I sighed quietly. So did Gerry.

“They’re paranormal investigators, Tim.”

“The Admiral is,” Tom corrected. “I’m his boyfriend.”

“Ooh, really?” Tim was stroking around the Major’s ears and neck. “My friend Sasha used to have a boyfriend called Tom. Except she wasn’t actually Sasha at that point, so I don’t know if her Tom even existed. Nice to meet you all the same.”

“Apparently we’ve gotten a noise complaint,” Gerry prodded, kneeling to investigate the book haul.

“I didn’t say that!” I was miffed. This was _serious_. I gave up on good interview technique altogether. “What do you know about the bloody handprints?” Both ghosts stilled.

“Was that ‘bloody’ as in a curse word, or…” I gave Tim an exasperated look. He shrugged. “Right, then, we’re back into spooky fuckery? Sounds about right.”

The conversation proceeded in a more manageable fashion after that. Timothy Stoker, deceased 2017, was a former employee of London’s Magnus Institute, an infamous repository of supernatural encounters and research. After his death, his brother had pushed him to find a nice place to haunt, get some new hobbies, maybe settle down. Rest. So, when he’d seen Bayram Serling coming out of a garden supply store not far from his grave, he’d trailed after them, and found the Quicknight Library.

“They’re his ex,” Gerry mouthed, eyes twinkling.

“They’re my _friend_,” Tim protested. “As well as my ex.”

Charmed by the library and its garden, and pleased by the thought of being near his friend, as well as the café his brother haunted, Tim settled into the attic. “And then Gerry turned up. I go on _one holiday_, and come back to a roommate.”

Gerry half-smiled, tried to hide it. “Could’ve been worse. At least it was me.”

Gerard Keay had died in 2014. He refused to elaborate on what he’d been doing before death, or before moving into the library. “I like books,” he explained sheepishly. “And I didn’t realize this one already had a ghost. By the time Tim came back, I was all settled. So we decided to cooperate, and it’s been…nice.”

“Gerry’s really lovely,” Tim added. 

They both swore they had not been responsible for moving things around, or the blood. “Maybe the lights, and definitely the music,” Gerry admitted. But the pair tried very hard _not_ to make the librarians’ jobs harder, even requesting and properly checking out the books they brought upstairs. 

“We’d never want to annoy Bayram, let alone scare them,” Gerry insisted.

“Or any of them!”

“Oh, sure, but Bayram’s our favorite.”

“That being the case,” I coaxed, “Perhaps you’d be willing to help us help them?”

“Of course!” From Gerry.

“Depends on what it is. Oh, who am I kidding? Yes.” From Tim.

⁂

Tim went to investigate the rare books room, while Gerry poked around in the staff rooms for a list he remembered seeing of missing items. Major Tom and I took a nap. I don’t know how humans can stand to be awake for such a long time, and then asleep for such a long time. Much better to alternate between the two, I think. It’s why cats miss so much less of what’s going on around us. I’ll grant that ghosts do have the advantage of being able to turn invisible. I can only imagine how much faster I would solve cases if _I_ could do that.

The ghosts woke us up by discussing about their findings, by which I mean that Gerry was painting Tim’s toenails silver while Tim gesticulated wildly with his hands. “We’re _dead_, Gerry! That’s, like, retirement squared! But _no_, the bullshit doesn’t stop! If I ever get my ghostly little hands on Jurgen Leitner, I’m going to book, bell, and candle his ass so he can’t bother me anymore!”

“He didn’t _make_ the Leitners, he just _collected_ them,” Gerry contradicted mildly.

“Gerry!” Tim sounded inexpressibly affronted.

“I’m only saying, it wouldn’t mean the books would disappear. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t set up an anti-Jurgen perimeter. We could make it so that he feels an inexplicable conviction that books will bite his fingers off unless they approve of his taste in music. And he’ll know he’s a ghost and can probably just grow them back, but he’ll also know that books don’t care about mortality, and he’ll try to bring himself to touch, but he’ll feel, more than hear, a faint snarl, and his hands will shake. And then he’ll have to get a new hobby.”

Tim looked considerable cheerier. “Maybe he’ll even get bored and shuffle off this mortal coil.” His face fell, and he flopped over so that he was prone on the floor, feet still in Gerry’s lap. “I just realized how many bundles of herbs that would take.”

Gerry patted his shin reassuringly. “There are other ways of making a spell stick.” Tim whimpered and put one forearm over his eyes.

I padded over to loaf next to Tim’s head. “Who’s Jurgen Leitner?”

Gerry made a face. “He used to collect evil books.”

I’d heard that phrase on the radio recently, before Georgie yelled at it and changed the station. “Pornography?” I asked, perplexed.

“What? No! Well. Maybe. But I mean—demonology, occult books, but _especially_ books touched by _Them_, the…the fears.”

The fur on my back stood up. “Oh. I understand.” Major Tom, still half-asleep, lifted his head and looked at me in concern. I don’t really understand what they are, Reader, but there are powers in our world that feed off of fear. They want to be powerful, they want us to be afraid, they nurture and nourish lesser agents of—of danger and _wrongness_. At least eighty percent of my cases stem from the demi-monde of ghosts and their ilk; the rest I believe to be _Them_, and these are the ones that have truly disquieted me.

“Right,” I said, making a conscious effort to de-puff my fur. “Tell me why you think he’s involved.”

Tim, I learned, had examined the glass-fronted stacks on the north wall, and zeroed in on an oversized cloth-bound book with no filing stickers on its spine. He’d borrowed Bayram’s key and given it a quick look. It was titled _An Atlas of Reification_. The inner front cover had a library tag in Bayram’s handwriting, saying that the cover material had resisted all attempted adhesives, and detailing the book’s call number, bar code, and additional details. There were also three bookplates. The newest identified it as a holding of Jurgen Leitner’s, the middle as a possession of Ngaio Quick’s, and the oldest as belonging to Evangeline Lukas. “Lukas,” Gerry put in, “is never a good sign.”

Major Tom was not satisfied. “Not to be rude,” he said, around a yawn, “but just because that book scared _you_ doesn’t mean it’s related to the case.”

Gerry capped the nail polish with an air of finality. “Look at what I brought upstairs.” He reached behind himself and picked up a sheet of lined note paper from the coffee table. “’The following items are still missing,’ yaddah yaddah ‘if found, please bring to Denise’s desk,’ yaddah yaddah, and the list is as follows: ‘spare keys to rare book storage, Alistair’s fancy brown mustard from the staff fridge, Ijeoma’s keyring (can be recognized by narwhal-shaped charm), Tabasco’s bunny toy, manila folder containing documents on the _Leitner estate donation_, spray bottle of glass cleaner, the front desk’s emergency pepper spray, and the entire first season of _Hannibal _on DVD.’”

“Well, you hadn’t _said_ that yet,” Tom teased, unabashed. I do adore him.

Gerard made nice by scratching him under the chin. “So, what do you plan on doing? Because I get it, your main goal is satisfying whoever your client is, but Tim and I are going to do something about that atlas.”

“Oh!” I said. “Well, you lads can do whatever you like, but I’m going to have a quick chat with Tabasco so we can arrange to set a trap for the mustard-loving book burglar tonight and put a stop to this.”

“_Tonight_?” Gerry countered. “Do you have time?”

“Well,” I tossed my head. “No point in dragging it out. Besides, Major Tom’s shop is open tomorrow. Best strike while we have the numbers.”

“How can we help?”

Tim uncovered his face and turned his head to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry. Did you say your client is Bayram’s _dog_?”

⁂

“Tabasco!” I hissed, sticking my head into the office Bayram shared with several filing cabinets and the wheeled carts of donated books marked for sale. Bayram, fortunately, was not in the room, so I slipped inside.

Tabasco perked upright, wary. “What have you found out? Is the library haunted?”

_That_ was a bit awkward. “Well. _Yes_. But they’re not the problem, they’re actually helping.”

She gave me a displeased twitch of her ears. “Did you at least tell them not to play their music so loud?”

I had not, but Gerry had said something about turning it down—or at least, he’d acknowledged that it had bothered people. “I did, and they were _most_ gracious and apologetic. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, though, miss. It looks like somebody’s been breaking into the library trying to get to a specific volume in the rare books room. I was wondering—if you can get Bayram to the attic, I think we can shut this down tonight.”

“The attic? The ghost part?”

“Quite so.”

“That’s going to be quite a lot harder than getting them to take me to the garden for a break, but I’ll manage. How big is our time window?”

“Now would be ideal, but anytime before they leave for the day.”

“…Ijeoma, I’ve got it on my desk, if you’ll give me a second, I’ll…” And Bayram came into their office, and saw me immediately. “What the fuck?” I froze. “You’re not supposed to be in here, sweetheart.” They bent forward, reaching for me, and I snaked between their legs and bolted for the stairs.

“_Dammit_,” I heard, and then: “I’ll come back after I catch the cat—”

“There’s a cat?!”

“Apparently!”

I took the stairs two at a time and considered sliding through the partly-open door to the ghosts’ room, but saw a better idea and sat on the landing, in full view of Bayram as they sprinted after me. And _then_, once they had neared, I drifted slowly through the door, so that their focus was less on _oh no not the spooky room_ and more on _ooh, I almost had him that time!_ As soon as they were on the right side of the door, I yowled at Tim to “Shut it!”

Bayram startled at the sound of the door swinging shut, and they took a long stride to it, trying the handle and panicking when it would not open. Tim, invisible, held the key just outside their vision. “Ijeoma! Alistair! Denise! Oh my _god_, can anyone hear me?”

Tim looked across the room, at Gerry. Gerry’s face was twisted in sympathy, but Tim looked frozen. “Could—Gerry, could you…hold my hand, just for a second?” Gerry’s ears turned pink. Bayram was frantically stomping on the floor, hoping someone would hear in the office—their own, I realized—below. Gerry drifted to Tim’s side and wrapped Tim’s free hand in both of his own, and Tim steeled himself. I saw the moment when he became visible, though it made no difference to me. He just looked…_more_. “Bayram,” he said softly. “Please calm down.”

The librarian stilled and rested their forehead against the faded blue door. Their body was dangerously tense, and the sound of their breaths, still coming hard and fast, filled the room. “Look at me, please?” Tim asked, and they did.

There was a long, fragile moment, and Tim offered a shaky smile. “Fuck you,” Bayram snapped, “you’re supposed to be dead, Tim! I went to your _funeral_! They said you’d died when some, some _wafflefucker_ threw a bunch of explosives in a tourist trap Matthew Macfadyen used to work at, and…and _none_ of us could _think_ why you’d even _been _in a place like that, and then they found out you’d left a will on your kitchen table, and cleaned your apartment from top to bottom, and…Tim, I had _MI5 agents _turn up on my door, asking me all sorts of stuff about you, because they thought _you_ might have _done it_, and all I could say was ‘I dunno, mate, but he left me all his comics and his good cookware, d’you think there might be a code in there?’ And instead you’re squatting in a library in Ealing, and you won’t even hug me, and…” Bayram tried to slump against Tim’s chest, but fell right through his form and hit the floor.

“Oh my god, darling, are you okay?”

Bayram rolled onto their back and folded their hands over their stomach in a philosophical attitude. “I deduce that my ex-boyfriend’s a bloody ghost, so _no_, but I will be that in a moment. Or several.”

Tim crouched beside them. He let go of Gerry’s hand, but rested his insubstantial head against Gerry’s equally insubstantial leg, and because they were both ghosts, it worked. Gerry hesitantly gave his head a soothing pat. “I’m really sorry, Bayram,” Tim whispered.

“Is it true? About the wax museum?”

“That Matthew Macfadyen used to work there? I dunno, I didn’t look at the employee records that closely.”

“Well, it was the tabloids’ favorite angle, so it _must_ be true,” they returned dryly. “Did you really blow it up, Tim? Fuck. You paused too long. Why the _hell_?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was the only way to kill the animate mannequin who killed my brother in aid of maximizing the amount of uncanny valley-derived fear in the world, to feed an evil god beyond our ken?”

“I would not, so let’s pretend you didn’t tell me.”

“Would you believe me if I said the reason things keep going missing lately is that someone’s trying to steal one of your rare books?”

Bayram tentatively levered themselves up with their elbows. “I would.”

“And I’m trying to stop them.”

“I appreciate that. All on your lonesome? No, don’t _pause_ again, my poor heart can’t take it.”

“Are you having heart problems?”

“I’ve aged ninety years since you’ve been gone…no, silly, it’s a figure of speech. Just the same old problems with Bayram’s too, _too_ mortal flesh. Spill. You’re working with the ghost of Oscar Wilde, I knew it.”

“There’s another ghost involved, but he’s not famous—”

“Not in Bayram’s circles, anyway,” Gerry laughed, below Bayram’s hearing.

“—he’s just my friend. And the cats, they’re very important.”

“The cats.”

“One of them’s a detective. Tabasco hired him.”

Bayram sat up fully. “Right! Not going to try to unpack _that_. So—the cat lured me up here, what do you want to talk about?” 

“_An Atlas of Reification_. Am I filling in the blanks right? Leitner left it to the collection because he’d gotten it off Ngaio Quick?”

“He bought it from her estate, yes. His executor was supposed to distribute certain titles of his collection, sell as much as possible of the remainder for the beneficiaries, and donate the residue. I’m told most of his library was lost in the nineties. A house fire, I think, but I can’t say whether I assumed that or was told. At any rate, after he’d been ruled ‘missing, presumed dead,’ the solicitor did her best with what was in his storage units, and when this one still hadn’t sold after a year, she gave it to us, along with the other unsold books. Maybe she was inspired by the old bookplate, but mostly I think it’s because she felt like she owed us a favor from her uni days. I didn’t follow the story completely, but I think an old librarian here went out of her way to get interlibrary loans.” Tim pulled a wary face at the idea of more “Leitners” being in the building, so they continued: “Some of them are quite nice, really. We got a bunch of vintage and antique children’s classics—water stained and unsalvageable, but we were able to cut out and frame lots of illustrations for the children’s room. Better, we got lots of golden age mysteries. Common enough titles, I’m not shocked they didn’t get snapped up, but the sort of thing that gets lots of circulation anyway. And great coffee table books! That’s most of what we were excited about. Those thick art books we want to flip through, but can’t usually justify buying.” They looked over at the ghosts’ coffee table. “That McQueen book was in that donation.”

“Oh. Gerry checked that out, I think.”

Bayram gave him a sidelong look. “Boyfriend?”

“We’re roommates!” Tim insisted, flustered, as Gerry hid a laugh.

“You’re _so_ bad at bluffing,” they teased. “Anyway, I think the _Atlas_ is the only weird one we got. It’s just a bunch of unfinished maps. Tell you what, I’ll hang late after work and show it to you.”

Tim hesitated. “Okay, but if we tell you it’s time to hit the pavement, don’t ask too many questions, yeah?”

“I’m torn between asking how you think a librarian could manage that and insisting I’ve heard too much already.” They stood, and Tim unlocked the door for them. “Right, I’ll see you lot at quarter to seven, come find me at the front desk.”

“Bayram?” I heard someone call, from the top of the stairs. “Oh my god, you went in the home of phobia? I think I’d’ve rather decided we’ve just got a pet cat now.”

Bayram, laughing, said something about having not found me after all.

⁂

Gerry and I set up the beacon. I wasn’t sure it would work on Fear-touched people, if I’m honest, but it was important to try. He found a piece of electric blue sidewalk chalk in the storage side of the attic, and used it to draw the symbols I described on the front walk. Signs for value, vulnerability, opportunity, proffered allyship, and a generic sign for We Have Seen, in absence of any concrete sense of what allegiance we were trying to snare. If we were lucky, the message would increase the likelihood our thief would strike that night.

Our trap would have to wait until the library closed. Bayram made their planned excuses about hanging back to use the laminator for a personal project before they headed out, good night all, see you tomorrow, there’s _nothing_ odd to explain.

When I jumped onto the desk, their monitor showed results for a Google search on “secondhand marijuana smoke how to tell.”

“Poor thing,” I sighed, to nobody in particular, but Tim and Gerry went to the trouble of making themselves visible gradually.

“Right,” Bayram said, putting a brave face on. “That was all real, then? Hello, I expect you’re Gerry. I’m Bayram.” They started to put their hand out to shake, started to drop it, but Gerry gave it a quick squeeze.

“Being solid’s a lot of work, I’m afraid, but I’ve got lots of spoons,” he explained. “And you looked like you needed it.”

They smoothed the front of their jeans. “Thank you, I really did. Tell me the cats’ names, I feel silly not knowing.”

Major Tom and I turned away from Tabasco, whom he had been filling in while I eavesdropped on the humans, and let Bayram pet our heads in greeting as Tim introduced us. All six of us proceeded to the rare book stacks. Tom and I jumped onto the table, while Tabasco leapt into a chair pulled out for her. As Bayram unlocked the cabinet, Tabasco gave Gerry a sidelong look and whispered to me: “…He’s the one I thought looked like a vampire.” I laughed and decided not to tell Gerry what she’d said.

“Right,” Bayram said, setting out the book with careful hands. “This is _An Atlas of Reification_. If your hands are clean, you may turn the pages yourselves, or ask me to do so at any time. No open food or drink, no varnished nails, and if you feel an oncoming sneeze, try to turn away and cover your mouth with your elbow.” Their voice quirked up, amused by giving their standard speech to a very non-standard audience.

“I think we’re going to go invisible for the moment, to save energy, but we’ll still be with you, alright?” Bayram gave Tim a nod and grin of confirmation—both that they understood, and that they were far from overwhelmed.

They went ahead and opened the cover. “Now, the first thing that caught my eye is that—oh, how odd.”

“Oh, words I _love_ to hear!” I laughed, Gerry relaying the message to Bayram.

“The tabs—they didn’t have text before, just color coding. ‘Ealing,’ ‘Number 300, Cherry Tree Lane,’ and—oh, here’s the Quicknight Library.” They flipped to a page. “Look, I didn’t realize this was in here. I wonder if that’s why Ngaio bought it? But there, we’ve got a map of the neighborhood on the left; and the floorplans on the right.” The pages had been stitched in some cunning way to allow the pages to lie flat, with no portion of the art lost to the usual cleave of the spine. They ran their fingers along the tabs, which made the satisfying fluttering noise of stiff paper. Their hand trembled minutely, and they flipped the book with a sharp motion to a new spread. “This…this is my grandmother’s house, near the Black Sea. Look, that’s the hazelnut tree by the kitchen window, and there are the beehives.” This map was dotted with seemingly handwritten legends, thin letters with unusually long tails and confident crossbars. “Right, then, it’s a personalized edition. That’s upsetting,” they observed, dimples deepening even as their mouth took on a grim twist.

There was a map of Great Yarmouth, with the center point set as the House of Wax, where Tim Stoker had died. A map of Pittsburgh, in America, with notes on coffee shops, a punk club, a place called the Mattress Factory which Gerry said was actually a museum, a cancer ward. We didn’t need to be told why. Cherry Tree Lane, of course, pointed out the home of Major Tom and Oliver, as well as Tabasco’s brother Wilson and our friend Cassandra. There was a page with the layout of Georgie’s present flat, as well as the student housing we’d lived in during her Oxford days. We found Bayram’s house, we found loved ones’ homes and favorite places. We found the pub run by Georgie’s mate Ectoplasm Dave’s mum Sheila, in the unassuming cellar of which I was born. And, too, there were maps we could explain for no reason other than that “it crossed my mind just now as an interesting place to look at, oh my god, it’s really reading our thoughts, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think we _need_ to panic, Tim,” Bayram soothed. “I mean, it’s just…it’s Google Earth, but in a magic book, right? It’s cool, it’s fine, we’re in an urban fantasy story maybe—” and Bayram made a sweeping gesture with their left hand, the pinky brushing against the paper, and there came an awful sound and tremble like an earthquake. We all crossed to the street-facing window. The pavement had been rent and cracked, a curve to its overall path that had not been there before. Tim floated backwards to urgently change the page from the library to a stretch of uninhabited land in central Antarctica. That’s what he asked for, and that’s what the legend said: “A Stretch of Uninhabited Land in Central Antarctica.” He drummed his fingers on the table briefly, and then, with the gusto of a sculptor seizing a lump of clay, twisted some lines around. A bleeding ink spot spread itself into a new legend alongside his remixed terrain: “Untitled mountain.”

“Oh, I don’t like this book at all,” Tim grumbled. 

Gerry slammed the _Atlas_ shut. “Right. Bayram will go home now, and we’ll take care of the prowler and fill them in later.”

The rest of us protested; Bayram’s hands would be greatly useful in setting up our trap. They insisted on it, in fact, which made Gerry’s gaze linger on Tim with a concerned near-pout. _Ah_, I thought. _They should just talk to each other_, the voice of my thoughts continued, despite knowing lovers seldom follow such good logic. Tim, for his part, noticed no subtext at all.

⁂

The traps looked ridiculous. With the _Atlas_ left out on the reading table as vulnerable bait, we used simple magic to fix several herb-festooned hula hoops to the library ceilings, ready to drop on our perpetrator. The chalk rune circles on the floor looked more auspicious, but were too non-specific to impress those of us who were used to the paranormal. There were a few ancillary devices hidden around, mousetraps in distressing places and the like.

We really did mean to send Bayram and Tabasco home, I swear it. They had their messenger bag on the shoulder! Tabasco had her leash on, ready to run them safely on their way! But they wanted to say goodbye to Tim, in case something went wrong and they didn’t get the chance. Gerry very politely turned his back and pretended to be reading a poster about the Dewey Decimal System. All of which meant that he missed the fact that Bayram and Tim looked in his direction before Bayram smirked at Tim and gave him a playful swat on his incorporeal shoulder. It was not what I would call an exchange rich with pining. Pity Gerry missed it.

At any rate, Bayram made an eyebrow-rich face at Tim, he mouthed “I’m _trying_,” they wished us all luck, and Major Tom and I walked them to the garden-side door.

“We’ll get this all sorted out,” I promised Tabasco. “And I’ll send a courier bird in the morning to update you.”

She shifted in well-controlled agitation. “Just promise me one thing?”

“Of course, miss.”

“Don’t let any library materials get damaged, okay?”

That was _not_ what I was expecting her to say. “We’ll…do our best?”

“Or get hurt yourselves, I suppose. That would also be bad.”

Major Tom twined lovingly between Bayram’s legs. “Major Tom, you keep an eye on your boyfriend, yeah?” they said, petting him. “He’s like Stoker, all flair no fire extinguisher.” 

At which point, a new voice interjected: “Er, excuse me, but are you…giving my cat relationship advice?” We all turned to see Oliver Banks standing in the wooden archway of the gate to the street. He looked a little tired, and especially elegant, in a dark green suit and dress boots the color of brandy.

“I locked that gate,” Bayram pointed out coldly.

Oliver gave them a smooth smile. “Well, it isn’t locked now.”

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“My cat got out.” Bayram looked skeptical, and Oliver sighed. “Look, his tag says ‘Major Tom,’ he _is_ my cat.” He took a step in Tom’s direction, and Bayram took an equal step back. Tom looked conflicted. Oliver met Bayram’s eyes fully for the first time, not just looking at them in politeness but _examining_. Voice very gentle, he observed, “Something’s frightened you.”

Bayram shook their head, silent, staring at Oliver like they were trying to crack a puzzle, and Tabasco left their side to lick Oliver’s hand, pointedly looking over her shoulder at Bayram. They shrugged, embarrassed. “I saw you in a dream,” they whispered. “That’s not a chat-up line.”

“No,” Oliver agreed sadly, rubbing Tabasco’s ears, “I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant dream. I’m sorry about that.”

They shrugged. “Used to be worse, those dreams.”

Major Tom gave me a long look. “Well, if Oliver’s here, he might as well help us,” he pronounced, and ran back indoors with me, laughing, on his heels.

Oliver ran after us, and Bayram and Tabasco ran after him. “The library’s _closed_!”

“I’m just going to get my cat!”

“Oh, leave him alone, he’s _working_!”

“What? Are you suggesting my cat’s a freelance electrician?”

Bayram snorted a laugh. “Don’t be funny when you’re making my life difficult. I’m sure he can find his own way home, he’s only got to go as far as Cherry Tree Lane!”

Oliver turned on his heel. “How did you know where I live?”

Bayram froze. “Why? What did I say? Sorry?”

And Tim set off a trap around Oliver Banks, an herbed hula hoop falling around him. He crumpled to his knees and made a pitiful whimpering sound, eyes glassy.

Tabasco was _not_ pleased. “He’s fine! His smell’s all wrong for the thief, which means he’s an entirely unconnected man who happens to smell alarmingly like death, I’m _sure_ of it!” She paused. “I think I’ve been spending too much time with Cassandra.” I relayed this to Tim, who was not impressed.

“But I’ve met him before! He came to the Institute one time, name’s Anthony—no! Antonio, Antonio Blake! An avatar of the End if I’ve _ever_ met one, which I _have_.”

Major Tom jumped from a table to Tim’s shoulder. “Actually, he’s Oliver Banks. My person.”

“Why d’you live with an avatar? I thought you had common sense!”

“I _do_,” Tom snapped, “and Oliver’s _good_. I _like_ him.”

Bayram, meanwhile, was examining Oliver, with Gerry feeding them advice about snapping him out of it. Tabasco and I exchanged a look of exasperation.

At which point the power went out. “Bayram,” Gerry whispered, “you should leave.”

They looked into Gerry’s face, and I saw the moment the wind turned, their eyes flashing. “Goddammit, this is _my_ library, _my_ neighborhood, and _my _friends, and I’m not abandoning you!”

⁂

They dragged Oliver’s limp body to the children’s room and left him inside a cushioned reading nook shaped like a rocket ship. I served as escort. When we returned to the main desk, Major Tom’s fur was standing on end. “I saw,” he hissed, “a _spider_.” His tail lashed. “A-hunting I must go,” he sang, “hi-ho hi-ho, a-hunting I must go…” and he whipped out of my sight before I could question him.

“Oh, dear,” I said.

Tim suggested Bayram and/or Tabasco should go make sure Tom was alright, “and come _right_ back if it seems like…not an ordinary spider.” Tabasco, understandably, considered it her duty not to be separated from her charge, so they both sprinted upstairs.

So. I was perched in the center of the main desk, a ghost on either side of me, when we saw the ringmistress. Her body was that of a mannequin, her face demarcated by gestures of black and red paint for eyes and lips, and she carried a long, _too_ long whip with the color and texture of a venomous snake. “Why, Timothy!” she chirruped. “Fancy meeting you here! I just bumped into your brother a little while ago, wasn’t _that_ a charming reunion!”

“Nikola.” Tim looked ill, and livid.

“In the flesh! Or blessed lack thereof, as the case may be. Now, then, sweetheart, why don’t you tell me where the book is and I won’t need to give Danny a second visit tonight, hmmm?”

“Time for round two, you polycarbonate vulture!” Tim lunged at her, she dodged, he corrected, she pirouetted, and she grande jetted into the Young Adult fiction. Gerry made as though to go after them, but we both startled at a noise in the opposite direction. I reluctantly padded in its direction, and found two women, their arms linked in apparent friendship, browsing the DVDs.

“Mum,” Gerry gasped, as though the word itself scalded his throat on its way out. She turned, an older woman with tattooed skin, pieces of it obviously once segmented and now stitched together with large, ugly seams.

“You know why I’m here,” she told him, and he nodded. “None of your usual stunts, Gerard? No book burning, you spineless pansy punk?” And Gerry, shaking all over, disappeared through the ceiling. I didn’t see how she pursued him, because all my attention was now focused on my horror as I realized who the remaining woman was.

“Georgie,” I gasped, and she actually understood me.

“Oh, hello, Admiral,” she said, turning one side of her face to smile at me. “Sorry ‘bout Mary, she’s a bitch and a half—no, that’s an insult to the world’s bitches. She’s abusive, is what, and I hope your pal will be okay. I had to be fake-nice with her to get in here.”

“Georgie, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in St. Ives!”

“Yeah, that all got twisty. Anyway, there’s this atlas I need to get for work, can you help me out?”

“…Why can you understand me? You couldn’t before, I know, or you would’ve known it was Jon who borrowed your wine-colored lipstick and forgot to give it back.”

“Ugh, really? I’ll chew him out later. Anyway,” she said, turning to me, “I had ever such a transformative experience on that ghost hunt.” Her face, on the side that had been hidden from me, was entirely exposed bone. 

“Georgie, _no_.”

“I was being so _foolish_, running away from The End. I couldn’t see the gifts I’d been given, the gifts still on offer.” She grinned with her right side of her face, where there were still lips. “And now, I’m free. Just as long as I bring the book back. Then we can have anything we want, Admiral. Geography will be our plaything. What d’you think? I could make you emperor of all fisheries, just give me an afternoon. I’ll steal away The Louvre for our home, and put Iguazu Falls in our backyard. Steal the Statue of Liberty, hold her for ransom.”

“For money?”

“For souls, silly! Oh, what a wonderful world, with so many people in it, just ripe for dying. Don’t you just want to _drink_ all that lovely, lovely pain? I’m going to add ‘the inescapable sense that your body will never truly belong to you, as it is destined for the clay’ to my skincare routine, it’s so _nourishing_.”

“Georgie,” I told her, “you’re not you anymore.”

“Of course not, kit-and-caboodle, I’m _better_.”

She crouched, and I raked my claws across what was left of her face. She screamed, bleeding, and I ran away from her, which brought me to the foot of the stairs just as a burly man in scrubs descended, with Bayram slung over his shoulder. “_Put me DOWN! _I don’t _want_ it, I want to _remember_!”

“Settle down, Mr. Serling, it’s for your own good,” the man insisted. I approached, intending to claw him too, but he kicked me solidly, but without critical damage, away. “We’ll make you a part of normal society, and you’ll finally be able to go without all these _crutches_.”

“_IT’S MY FUCKING BRAIN!_” they screamed, so loud I felt sure the windows would break, along with my heart.

Major Tom streaked in, a spider the size of Tabasco skittering on the ceiling above him, copying his every move. I leapt onto the main desk again, and from there to the top of the holds shelf, trying to survey the room better. Tim staggered back into the room, Nikola trying her best to choke him, and Gerry was curled in a ball in one corner—when did he come downstairs again?—with his mother looming over him, sharpening a knife. There was a dead body on the floor, close to me, blood pooled around its head, and dark tendrils of unidentifiable matter spreading from the wound to…somewhere unknown. Oliver Banks stood over it, weeping, and I realized it was his own corpse. Tabasco was howling in grief somewhere, and I did not need to see it to know she had found Bayram’s body, or something like it.

“Admiral,” Georgie said, behind me, and I jumped. “Poor darling. If you want this to stop, all you have to do is let me have the _Atlas_. Come on, baby, you know I’m the only person you could ever trust with it.”

“It’s in the rare books room,” I pointed out, “but you knew that already.”

“The wards, Admiral. Let me pass.” Her tone was reasonable, coaxing. “Once one of us has the book, this will all go away.”

I will admit it: I am a brave, urbane cat, but I am neither as stubborn as I ought to be, nor as selfless. If given the choice between my dearests and the rest of the world, I will sacrifice the many for the few. And besides, there was a sliver of me that wasn’t convinced Georgie, my Georgie, was beyond reach. So I walked her to the doorway of the rare books room, and hissed a secret word. All our so-carefully laid traps fizzed and fell, useless, to the ground, turning to ash, while the chalk circles simply blurred into meaningless scribbles. Georgie, face shining in exultation, approached the table. I turned my face away. I saw, instead, Bayram struggling with their medical brute, almost getting away from him before being seized with strong arms tight around their torso. The man said something into their left ear. Bayram stilled and frowned. His grip relaxed, and Bayram ripped away from him and punched him in the face.

“Wrong ear, you ableist dunghill finch-egg Banbury _cheese_!” Their voice lilted up on every word in triumph. They shook their hand out, in the way people unused to throwing punches do, hopped away from him a couple of paces, and crowed, in the professional tone, if not the language, of librarians and educators: “Oh my Aunt _Fuck_, you’re not even _him_! Who the hell are you, _what_ the hell _are_ you—_shit,_ you’re all of them, they’re all you, you stop that _right now_, you absolute berk, this is completely unacceptable!”

I could not, for the record, see what they were seeing, but we both—I think we _all_—heard the laughter when it started. Not a nice laugh, but dry as kindling and hollow as bird bones, somewhere in the periphery of our hearing, cruel and plainly at our expense. I looked at Georgie, but she wasn’t, after all, Georgie, her body taking on a dull quality like an old photograph, blurring in my vision and then sliding, sloughing, into a mass of multicolored particulate, running with a liquid quality into the main room, joining the melting streams of particulate that all the other horrors in the room were becoming.

Tim, gasping for air, darted across the room to put his arms around Gerry, who was tentatively peeking through his fingers. Oliver sat down in relief, Major Tom running to his lap and shaking. Tabasco padded nervously into the room, joyfully jumping on Bayram when she got their scent. I batted a paw at the technicolor lump, now forming a sphere on the rug. It burst cleanly, like a soap bubble, and I defensively closed my eyes. When I looked again, two women—twins, or the same woman twice—were in front of me, one plainly trying to kill the other. They were, as I said, identical, tall and elegant, in a cream-colored blouse and red skirt, one’s pretty dressy Oxford shoes scrabbling for purchase on the floor as the other held her up with long, _too_ long, hands.

I made a decision and launched myself, claws drawn, at the aggressor’s thigh. She dropped her other self and the injured version grabbed her roughly, and _pulled, _and the angry one was…sucked into her. I found myself hanging in the air, and hit the floor hard, with too little time to twist to land on my feet. Oliver, carrying Tom in his arms, came closer. The remaining woman was panting heavily. I realized her hands were equally as _wrong_ as the vanished version. “Distortion,” Oliver said, as though greeting an acquaintance in the supermarket.

“My name’s Helen,” she corrected. “I think I’ve pulled myself together now.” She started shaking, looking an inch away from a panic attack. “I don’t—I didn’t know that would happen, I do apologize. I meant to scare you witless, of course, but I didn’t plan to be _cruel_, and I just wanted to _stop_ but I _couldn’t_, and then Helen and Distortion weren’t the same person, just as I’d feared for so long, except I think now we are again, I’m so terribly sorry, I don’t _do_ that to innocents, except I just _did_, because I was _me_ the whole time, wasn’t I, even when I was not _myself_?” She shook a little, pulled a grim not-smile. “Oh, poor Jon. He’s going to hate this, when it’s his turn.” 

I made another decision and climbed onto her lap, purring. I didn’t think she was dangerous in that moment, and most beings feel more like themselves when something warm and friendly is touching them. She calmed immediately, burying her hands into my fur. Far too many bones, but I tolerated it.

“You alright?” I heard Bayram ask Oliver.

“Oh, more or less. Saw myself dead by my own hand, so not even an _unusual_ nightmare. You were amazing, though, how did you realize they weren’t real? I knew they couldn’t be, but all my senses were _convinced_.”

“She whispered in my deaf ear, so I couldn’t quite make out the words. So I guess—I don’t know, is this fairy-style bullshit, the glamour was broken? Or else I just realized there was a disconnect, and once my brain caught up with me all I could see was—her. The version that was trying to kill all of us, herself included. I’m glad you’re conscious again, by the way.”

“Me too,” Oliver said, and smiled brilliantly. Major Tom looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“I should make sure the ghosts are okay,” Bayram added.

“There are ghosts here?” he replied—and then a new voice chimed in.

“Yes, _do_ tell us about the _ghosts_.” She was a 30-something woman with a fresh haircut and a weathered leather jacket, with an old, scruffy man in a trenchcoat. She had a gun strapped to her hip and a butcher’s knife in one hand. He held a long, sharp piece of wood, and in his other hand dangled a pink bunny toy. He squeezed it, letting the cheerful squeak to echo ominously. Tabasco made a pained whining noise, and I realized it was her stolen toy. “Or maybe save it for that Barker woman with the podcast,” the woman continued. She pointed her gun at Bayram. “The _Atlas_. Now.” Bayram, hands in plain view, edged towards the rare books room. “No,” the woman decided, “hold still. Helen, go grab it.”

Helen looked up. “I don’t think I will.”

The man sighed heavily. “Spiral freaks, always unreliable.”

I felt what might have been Helen’s pulse quicken. “Oh, I’m _very _reliable,” she said, looking slightly beyond the bearded man. “See, I planned to double-cross you, and I’m _doing_ that.” She pushed me off her lap and made a sudden motion away from where I, Tom, Tabasco, Bayram, and Oliver were grouped.

The woman in the leather jacket cursed, visibly spooked, and wasted bullets aiming at Helen, whose unsteady legs left her stumbling, until she collapsed and stilled. She did not appear to be breathing. 

And Tim Stoker came up behind jacket woman and disarmed her of the gun with spectral fingers, while Gerry took the man’s stake. Both intruders pulled away, the woman advancing on us with her cleaver, and the man pulled a sinister Altoid tin from his breast pocket. “Julia and I are immune to this stuff, but I’ll gladly hit your pals with an acid splash if you don’t show yourselves!”

The woman—Julia—was trying to grab at Bayram or Oliver, but Tabasco shielded them, growling ferociously, while Tom and I sank claws into her before darting out of reach of her blade.

Tim made an upsetting noise by slapping a metal ruler against the desk three times while Gerry materialized, standing on it with arms crossed.

“It’s Gerry, bitch!” Mr. Keay yelled, and Julia and her partner paled.

“Bad penny,” the man spat.

Tim materialized as well, lounging horizontally on the desk. “Herbert. Montauk. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it _really_ isn’t.”

Julia gave him a blank stare. “Have we met?”

“…Seriously? Yes! I’m from the Magnus Institute! Or—I was.”

Mr. Herbert nodded slowly. “Nope, sorry.”

Tim sighed heavily. “I get no respect—”

“He blew up The Unknowing,” Gerry interrupted, and the intruders lit up.

“Cor, good on you, then!”

“Trevor,” Julia sighed, grudgingly. “We’re not here to socialize.”

“Nah,” Gerry said. “You’re here to die and then spend months if not years as occult Google substitutes. Oh, wait, that was _me_.” And Helen, body still weak and shaky from crawling to where we stood, was supported into a standing position by Bayram and Oliver so she could put one hand on each of the Hunters’ shoulders—and shove them through a door that was most _definitely_ not part of the library. It swung shut behind them and vanished.

“Right,” she panted. “We’ll see how they like Death Valley.”

And all was still.

⁂

We had tea in the staff kitchen. Well, Bayram, Oliver, and Helen had tea. Major Tom and I had scrambled eggs, and Tabasco had bacon bits. She hadn’t decided whether she wanted her bunny toy back yet, but planned to assess it after Bayram had put it through the laundry. Tim and Gerry simply hovered with us.

“So,” Tim said, “I understand why those two would want a book that lets them do freaky shit to terrain—that’s _very_ Hunt of them. But how did you get involved?”

Helen, trying to sip a tea in a way that downplayed the number of joints in her hands, shrugged coyly. “Julia—reached out.”

“What, through a Facebook group for—” Bayram made a hand gesture for “spooky stuff.”

The rest of us unanimously, and silently, decided to neither confirm nor deny the existence of such a thing. “People like…us, we tend to know who each other are,” Helen simply explained. “And I thought—well, I don’t trust them with it, might as well do some cloak and dagger and steal it away. My friends at the Archives will know what to do with it.” Tim groaned. She ignored him. “I’m not entirely pleased by how it unfolded, but at least I can plan more effectively next time.”

Oliver made a sympathetic noise. “We always think we can control our powers until we _try_.”

“Quite.”

Bayram stood up. “Let me go get the _Atlas_, I’ll put it in a bag for you to take to the Institute.”

“You’ll _what_?” Tim snapped.

“I’m letting her take it. No, Tim, stop it. If you still worked there, I’d send it to you, yeah? As it is—who the hell else is equipped to deal with evil books? You said yourself that Leitner bastard’s got fans and followers, and now all the powers know we’ve got the _Atlas_, so—we’re only a neighborhood library, Tim, we can’t cope. Besides, I’m going to have to call the police anyway at some point, because the main room’s got bullet casings and blood and a bunch of ashes in it, so it’s not like the disappearance will need a separate explanation.”

“But—but she’s _the Distortion_, she’s got her own agenda!”

“As opposed to whose, Tim? Yours? I’m a _librarian_, Tim, I just want it somewhere people know how to store it properly. Archivists can do that.”

“Ah,” Tim agreed, gloomily. “Yes. Archivists. People who know how to store and process records and documents and the like. Very qualified people, archivists.”

Bayram gave him a fondly exasperated look, and headed downstairs. Helen, Tabasco, and I followed.

They wrapped it carefully and handed it to Helen, who said, in a soft, private voice: “I don’t think I can apologize enough to you, in particular.”

Bayram shrugged. “You were in as much danger as any of us, as far as I could tell. Sometimes our bodies are not…kind to us.”

“She—I—it—” Helen sighed. “I wanted you to know I’d never have misgendered you if I’d been in control of myself.”

Bayram giggled. “I kind of love that that’s the part you thought was the worst.” They laid a hand on Helen’s forearm. “Please don’t mistake my understanding for being _okay_, Helen. Maybe sometime, if you need a librarian, like—you can talk to me, see if I’m up to that? But I’m drained and pissed and still freaked out, and I don’t want to make small talk with you anymore. So—good night? And good luck, and all that. Y’know.”

Helen nodded. “I _do_. Thank you, Bayram.” And she disappeared through one of her doors.

Oliver Banks stepped in a moment later, carrying Tom, who wiggled out of his arms to lay against me. We had barely stopped touching each other since the action had concluded. “I’m going to head out,” he said. “But—well. I don’t know where you’re headed, but I thought you might like to walk together? Or share a car?”

Bayram looked curiously at him. “You never explained why you turned up tonight.”

Oliver looked sheepish. “I—used tarot to get an idea of where Tom might have wandered off to.” 

They nodded. “And the dreams?”

“I—this is an awful question, but do you mind if I smell you?”

Bayram half smiled, and moved into Oliver’s personal space. He looked startled, breathed in more deeply. “You’re the one who smells like apricots, in the dreams about the hedge maze. I assumed—I used to not sleep at all, but I…did a favor for someone, just a little thing, visited a man in hospital—and now I do sleep, but I share people’s nightmares when I do. Except yours isn’t.”

“It used to be. It was a dream about being,” Bayram chuckled unhappily, “_hunted_. Until you started showing up in it. Now it’s just a dream about wandering around.” Oliver made a broken-off hand motion, like he’d been about to touch their face. Bayram took the hand in their own. “I’m starving,” they said.

“Oh,” Oliver replied, disappointed.

“I’m asking you to have dinner with me,” Bayram clarified, voice patient, eyes amused.

“_Oh_.”

I swear, Major Tom will never stop gloating over this.

⁂

Bayram ran upstairs for their bag. I kissed Tom goodnight and wandered to the kitchen to speak to the ghosts-in-residence before heading out myself. When I arrived, Bayram was trying to fix their hair while Tim held their phone to serve as a mirror. Gerry, distressed, was asking questions. “You’re going to dinner, with Oliver Banks, as a _date_?”

“He seems nice. Is he not nice?”

“He’s fine, whatever, I just thought…”

Tim, with studied casualness, said: “I didn’t realize you had a crush on Bayram.”

Gerry looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “I don’t,” he said flatly. “_You_ do.”

Tim and Bayram laughed so hard tears came to their eyes. I admit I did as well. “Gerry, we _broke up_. _Well_ before I died. We love each other, but we’re completely incompatible.”

“But—but—how?”

Bayram, eyes full of mischief, swung their bag over their shoulder and said: “We’re both tops.”

Tim sputtered. “_Bayram_. That’s—I mean—it isn’t—”

Gerry tilted his head. “Isn’t appropriate, or isn’t true?” Tim hid his face in his hands. Bayram laughed.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Eventually. Good night!” And they disappeared down the stairs.

“Good night!” they both called after them, absently.

Tim took a deep inhalation. “Gerry, when I fancy someone, I don’t act like I do with Bayram now.” 

Gerry slid closer to him. “How do you act?”

“Well, for one thing—oh for fuck’s sake, Gerry, I’ve been holding your hand!”

“That’s a thing friends do!” Gerry protested. “Isn’t it?”

“Well—yeah, sometimes, but I have very much been holding your hand in a non-platonic manner.”

Gerry turned crimson. “I see.”

Tim sighed with relief. “Good.”

“We should kiss now, yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

At which juncture I realized they’d forgotten I was in the room, and decided to leave.

⁂

Tabasco and Bayram paid for my services with a generous gift card to a sushi place, which Oliver graciously assisted in helping me spend on a lavish date night of take out with Major Tom. I believe all parties are still alive and well, though I have not gone out of my way to return to the library. Tom reports that Bayram and Oliver are still seeing each other, and I occasionally see the library ghosts around and about, holding hands in a decidedly non-platonic manner. As for Helen, Julia Montauk, Trevor Herbert, and _An Atlas of Reification_—I can report nothing at all. But the library has been troubled no further. And as for myself—well. Once Georgie came home, safe and sound and very much herself, it was several days before I let her out of my sight.

End

⁂

[Typed note on Magnus Institute stationery.]

Save for Jon to read. If Jon still has not dealt with it after 3 months, return to me and I’ll read it. The cover letter looks like a prank, but you never know.

\--Martin Blackwood

**Author's Note:**

> Aren't Saberdog and Dariadraws' art stunning??? You can find more of their work at http://saberdogart.com/ and https://dariadraws.tumblr.com/
> 
> The timeline of this fic may be a bit screwy with regard to canon--at publication time, episodes are set around 2-3 months after this case, and The Admiral's letter and Martin's notes are set a year later. 
> 
> Cherry Tree Lane is not a real place, and neither is the Quicknight Library. London may or may not be, scientists disagree.
> 
> I'd just like everyone to know that when I put the Cats musical joke in there, I didn't even know the movie had been made. Obviously, I suffered psychic damage while doing clean-up edits, having forgotten I made it.
> 
> You can visit me on Tumblr at: http://cartograffiti.tumblr.com, Pillowfort at: https://www.pillowfort.social/Jackalope, and you're welcome to join my TMA Discord server: https://discord.gg/JF8E2X6.


End file.
